


hot as he takes his coffee, dumb as his fat donkey

by un-ah (NeverConformEver)



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Sexual Harassment, Sexual innuendos, barista!thomas, implied past toxic relationship, in which we do not romanticize the harassment of servers, thomas is thirsty but lbr can we rly blame him? i mean look at minho. look at him, well... at least not THAT much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28625016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverConformEver/pseuds/un-ah
Summary: There's an annoying regular frequenting the coffee shop that Thomas works at, and he has it out for Thomas. But the worst part isn't even the obnoxious flirting or harassment.It's how stupidly hot he is.
Relationships: Minho/Thomas (Maze Runner), Past Assistant Director Janson | Rat Man/Thomas (Maze Runner)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 55
Collections: Pieces of Thominho





	hot as he takes his coffee, dumb as his fat donkey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Izcana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izcana/gifts).



> thanks izcana for the great prompt!
> 
> disclaimer: i know nothing about cars or coffee drinks

Teresa gives Thomas the  _ look. _

Thomas hates the  _ look. _ The  _ look _ is their unspoken signal that it’s 8:15, and 8:15 means  _ he’s _ back.

Sure enough, when Thomas turns back to the counter, their most well-known regular is there right on the dot. As always.

He always orders a café au lait. He always pays in cash. He always orders to-go. He always  _ insists _ on Thomas being the one to make and serve his drink.

And he always looks like a juicy, steaming hot man-sandwich straight from Thomas’s wettest dreams. Thomas would never admit it out loud, but he’d  _ love _ to sink his teeth into that lurid feast of a man. Seriously, that coat? With that sweater? Should be illegal. Even if his hair makes him look like an overgrown frat boy trying to impress his best friend’s stepsister.

Too bad he’s the most obnoxious, cocky thing to have ever driven a 2017 Toyota Corolla in Galactic Aqua Mica.

Yeah, Thomas knows what model his car is, so what?

Mr. Sex-in-Italian-Loafers strolls up to the counter and gives Thomas a wink.

“Hey, baby.”

Thomas’s face is a mask of disinterest. His lips don’t so much as twitch. He’s already selected the usual order on his screen, just to speed things up a little.

“I’ll have a café au lait, to-go.”

Well, no surprises there.

They stare at each other for a bit longer, Thomas glowering with everything he has. Teresa says his baby face makes it about as intimidating as a 3-month-old pomeranian, but Thomas doesn’t care.

The other man quirks an eyebrow and crosses his arms, clearly unafraid to wait as long as it takes. Thomas can feel his eyebrow twitch.

“...Name?” he grumbles.

The customer beams. It’s stupidly attractive.

“You can call me ‘man of my dreams’, darling.”

Unbelievable.

Thomas goes through the motions, feeling absolutely dead inside as he makes the drink as quickly and efficiently as possible.

He pops the lid onto the cup, scribbles “pants on fire” on it, and calls it out.

“Order for ‘man of my dreams’,” he drones in the most bored voice he can muster. The other lingering customers in the shop look up, suddenly interested in the events happening at the counter. The man is all smiles as he saunters up to the counter and takes the cup with another saucy wink.

“Thanks, babe.”

Thomas didn’t exactly have a choice, here, since the guy refuses to take the drink from anyone but Thomas and will not leave the shop until they call out whatever ridiculous name he comes up with, so he doesn’t bother responding.

The man leaves, the bell tinkling behind him as the door swings shut, and Thomas exhales in relief.

“What a creep,” Teresa says.

Thomas sighs. Why does he always get the weird ones?

Once he’s gone, Teresa makes a beeline for the tip jar.

She whistles, pulling out a fifty and showing it to Thomas.

The only reason why Thomas hasn’t reported Sexy McGee to management for harassment is because he tips, and tips well.

(He also likes to stick his number in the jar periodically, but Thomas has never even glanced at the digits. If he wanted to talk to the guy, he would’ve by now. He does see Walking, Talking Spank Bank’s face every day at 8:15, after all.)

“Sure you don’t want a sugar daddy?” Teresa asks. “Not all rich guys are hot, you know.”

Thomas scowls and stuffs the bill back in the jar. “I’m sure.”

The guy might be the epitome of masculine perfection, but that’s not enough to sway Thomas’s opinion of his behavior.

Sure, ever since that one time the guy came in wearing a tank top after what looked like a jog Thomas has caught himself daydreaming about those biceps more than once. So what? It isn’t a crime to just  _ think _ about it. Who wouldn’t? Those arms could lift Thomas easily, and toss him like a ragdoll, no problem. Not that Thomas thinks about that happening all the time. Nuh-uh. He knows how to not think with his dick, okay. It’s just that sometimes he gets distracted by the thought of what it might be like to face-plant onto those pecs and be surrounded by the scent of that spicy cologne. That doesn’t mean Thomas is shallow. He cares about personality, too, obviously.

Not that his last boyfriend was a good example of that. Or the one before that. Or the one before that.

Okay, so maybe Thomas is a little bit shallow. But he’s smarter than that. Just because he thinks about kissing that stupid smirk off the guy’s face doesn’t mean he’s actually going to.

“Thomas? Hello, Earth to Thomas?”

Thomas shakes himself out of his thoughts. “Sorry, T.”

Teresa rolls her eyes at him. “Yeah, whatever. We’ve got a macchiato incoming, think you can handle that?”

“On it.”

* * *

Thomas taps his foot impatiently. It’s 8:17 and Eye-fucking Extraordinaire still hasn’t shown up. Thomas has an awful headache, having woken up late feeling like crap. He really isn’t in the mood for any bullshit today.

He drums his fingers on top of the to-go cup filled with the ready-made café au lait impatiently.

Where  _ is _ he?

“Maybe he isn’t coming today,” Teresa says.

_ Maybe he isn’t interested anymore,  _ he hears.

“Good riddance,” Thomas huffs, pushing the thought away. That’s what he wanted, right?

The clock ticks to 8:19. Thomas makes a face and tells himself to stop being stupid. He takes a gulp of the café au lait, because waste not want not. He’s not disappointed. Not at all. He wasn’t looking forward to checking the guy’s ass out as he walked towards the door. Why would he look forward to that? Thomas has a perfectly serviceable ass himself, he doesn’t need anyone else.

“Whatever,” he declares, turning to wipe one of the machines. Behind him, the door tinkles. “I don’t care. Maybe he found a barista on the other side of town to bother.”

“Jealous?” a voice asks.

“What? No. Why would I be—”

Thomas turns and shuts his jaw with a click.

He’s wearing a turtleneck today. The fabric looks soft, and is thin enough to cling to him like a second skin. Thomas does not stop to check him out.

“You’re late,” he blurts.

The customer grins smugly. “Sorry, babe. Forgot my keys on the way out. Won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Thomas says curtly. “Café au lait?”

“For ‘Tall, Dark and Handsome’.”

...Seriously? Thomas doesn’t bother hiding his massive eye-roll.

He stomps over to the machines and grumpily makes the drink. After he’s done, he writes “Richard” on the cup, because Dr. Sex Fantasy is a huge dick.

“Order for ‘tall, dark and handsome’,” he calls out, injecting as much sarcasm as humanly possible into his tone.

The man takes his drink and looks at the letters scrawled onto it. He smiles, like he’s pleased about something. He leans forward and opens his mouth.

“Elbows off the counter, please,” Thomas says, glaring.

The man straightens immediately, but doesn’t seem deterred.

“So...” he drawls. “When do you get off?”

“At home and in private,” Thomas retorts.

Wait, shit. He didn’t mean to say that.

The guy chuckles and gives Thomas a smoldering look from under his eyelashes. Thomas feels himself turn red.

“While thinking of me?”

“Thinking of you shutting up, maybe,” Thomas grouses.

“Kinky.”

“We can try it out now if you’d like.”

“Nah. Wouldn’t want to be put in the slammer for public indecency.”

_ You’re always indecent, though, _ Thomas thinks.

“Mmmm. That’s a shame,” he says instead, cocking his head to the side. “Orange would bring out the asshole in your eyes.”

The smirk he gets in response is, unfairly, still the hottest thing Thomas has ever seen. It makes him think things he should not think about while at work.

The guy steps back and takes a sip of his drink. “You’re cute when you’re angry,” he says, then turns to leave.

_...Cute? _

Thomas isn’t  _ cute. _ He’s pretty, maybe. Pretty hot, if he does say so himself. But  _ cute _ when he’s  _ angry? _ What is it with men and thinking that infantilizing someone’s frustration is a turn-on?

Thomas will show him  _ cute. _ Just you wait.

He fumes quietly from behind the counter, imagining what it would be like to throttle the guy. Preferably with the turtleneck still on.

(That doesn’t stop him from watching the guy’s ass as he walks out the door, though.)

* * *

All right, so maybe forgetting to take a jacket with him when he was already feeling under the weather was a bad move on Thomas’s part. His head is killing him, and his throat hurts. He’s sick, there’s no denying it. Alby is pretty strict about his sick policy, so there’s no way he can go in today.

So Thomas texts Aris, begging him to cover his shift. Aris, angel that he is, accepts. Then he shoots a couple emails to his professors and passes out on the couch.

A few hours later, Teresa is unlocking the door with her spare key and coming in.

“How’re you feeling?” she asks.

“Do you need to ask?” he groans. “Oh, god. No, don’t open the curtains.”

“Brought you some stuff,” she says, holding up a shopping bag with canned soup, water, some tea packets and Tylenol in it.

“Thanks, T,” he says, closing his eyes and throwing his arm over his eyes. “You’re the best.”

“That guy came in again today,” she says. “Asked about you.”

“Mmmm? What’d you say?”

Teresa shrugs. “The truth. Told him you were sick.”

Thomas squints at her, projecting as much disbelief as he can through the pounding headache he has. “Should’ve told him I quit. Maybe then he would stop coming back. Did he make poor Aris call out his order this time?”

“No. He didn’t even order his drink before leaving. I think he might actually like the way you make it, specifically.”

Thomas gives her a fuddled look. “But you’re the one who taught me how to make a café au lait.”

Teresa shrugs. “True. Maybe he’s just decided that you’re the only one he wants to harass.”

Thomas rolls over and shoves his face into the couch cushion. “Ugh,” he says. “Just my luck.”

* * *

Three days later and Thomas is back in the coffee shop.

But that’s not important. What’s important is, how is it possible for someone to have such flawless skin? And a jawline that square? It just isn’t fair. Why do all the assholes have to look so good?

“Heard you were sick,” the guy that Thomas totally hadn’t daydreamed about every day while lying sick in bed says, conversationally. “Feeling better?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

The man’s eyes crinkle at the edges.

_ Stop being so attractive, _ Thomas begs silently.

“Yes, you are. Looking as beautiful as ever.”

Uh-huh. He probably tells all the boys that.

“...Café au lait?” Thomas asks, eager to get the interaction over with as quickly as possible before he does or says something stupid.

“As usual,” the living wet dream agrees. “I missed seeing you first thing in the morning.”

He says it softly, voice liquid and low the way you’d talk to a lover after giving them a gentle good morning kiss by the door. His lips are quirked just slightly, like he doesn’t realize he’s smiling as he looks at Thomas.

Despite himself, Thomas gulps. “Is that so.”

“Yeah. You have a way of brightening my day.”

He sounds...sincere?

What is with the guy today? This isn’t their routine. He’s supposed to say stupid, cheesy lines, call Thomas “babe” and “baby” and overall just make it easy to rebuff his advances. What’s with the change in tone?

This is stupid. They don’t even know each other.

Then the guy gives him a wink. “Now I can’t go about without my daily dose of angel-face to keep me going,” he says. “Spare some sympathy for an addict.”

Thomas wrinkles his nose. “Let me guess, you need a doctor to come make you feel better?”

The smug, insufferable grin is back. “Got some time to spare for me, baby?”

“I’m an architecture major,” Thomas deadpans. “And I can’t write you a prescription without a name.”

“Curious, are you? I’ll tell you if you give me your number.”

“Not a chance.”

He chuckles, and Thomas swears he can feel the vibrations down to the base of his spine.

“I’ll get through to you one day. You’ll see,” the guy says. “Order’s for ‘the BIGGEST Richard’.”

“Yeah, right,” Thomas mutters.

The guy quirks a brow and bites his lip. “I can prove it to you, if you want.”

Thomas suppresses a shiver and tells himself  _ not _ to think about it.

_ Do not, Thomas. Don’t you dare. _

“No thanks,” he mutters, struggling to keep a straight face.

Thomas writes “the BIGGEST pain in my ass” on the cup and calls it out before handing it to him.

Pfft. The biggest Richard. The guy couldn’t get more cocky if he tried.

As usual, the guy reads what’s on the cup before taking a sip.

“I can make that literal, you know,” he says, tapping the words.

...Okay, so maybe Thomas walked right into that one.

“Keep dreaming,” he snorts.

“Of you? It’s all I do, baby.”

Thomas doesn’t bother replying.

...But damn. His ass looks great today, too.

* * *

Thomas should have known better than to start feeling comfortable. If you can call getting used to daily harassment “feeling comfortable”, that is.

It’s 8:13 and the door tinkles open.

_ He’s early, _ Thomas thinks to himself. He’s already getting the drink ready when he hears someone impatiently drumming their fingers on the counter.

“Hold your horses,” Thomas says. “I’m just—”

The person standing at the counter is not the insufferably sexy jerk that’s been harassing him for a month now. No, he’s worse.

It’s Thomas’s ex. Not just any ex— _ the _ ex. The one that fucked up his life horrendously. It’s a long story. It’s been awhile, but neither of them have changed much, it seems, because they both recognize each other right away.

“Janson,” he says coolly. “What can I do for you today?”

“Back to last name basis, Thomas?” Janson asks. He leans onto the counter and gives Thomas one of those small, fake-nice smiles that Thomas had learned to hate.

“Elbows off the counter, please,” Thomas says. Janson ignores him.

A credit card is flicked onto the table.

“Whatever the barista recommends,” Janson says, looking Thomas up and down like they’re not standing in the middle of Thomas’s workplace.

Thomas reaches for the card. Right. What kind of drink does Janson hate, again?

“Pumpkin spice latte, coming right up,” he snarks.

Janson is quick as a snake, hand darting out to grasp Thomas’s.

“Now, now, darling,” he says, tugging Thomas closer. “I taught you to have better taste than that.”

Thomas leans away and tries to pull his hand back. Janson’s grip is tight, nails digging into Thomas’s skin. Thomas fights back a wince, but something on his face must twitch because Janson’s smile widens.

The door tinkles. Thomas’s shoulders stiffens.

It can only be one person.

(Janson always did have terrible timing. And for some unfathomable reason, Thomas really hadn’t wanted the dude he’s ridiculously attracted to to see this go down.)

Teresa’s in the back, because whoever closed out the night before messed up while doing inventory. Thomas thinks about calling for her, but hesitates. He doesn’t really want to make a scene. He can deal with his ex by himself—Janson’s just your average creep who overcompensates for his self-esteem issues. Nothing to worry about, he tells himself.

“If you need more time to peruse our menu, feel free.”

Thomas tugs his hand again, but Janson refuses to let go.

Janson lifts Thomas’s hand, which is in a white-knuckled grip around the credit card, to press a kiss to his fingers.

“Oh, I think you know what I want.”

Thomas feels slimy and gross. He can’t believe he ever went out with this guy. What had he been thinking?

Oh right, he hadn’t been. He’d just been a dumb kid eager to jump into a relationship with anyone who would have him. God, how did Janson even manage to find him, here? Is it just Thomas’s dumb luck?

Thomas points above his head. “The menu’s up there, sir.”

“Sir? That’s a new one. I like it,” Janson whispers, stroking Thomas’s hand now. “I think I’ll have you call me that again, later.”

Thomas’s nostrils flare as he tries to calm himself. He doesn’t want to make a scene. He doesn’t want to make a scene.

He can handle this.

“Your order, sir.”

Janson leans closer. Thomas tilts his head away, avoiding eye contact. His eyes flicker up and make contact with the nameless regular’s.

Thomas sees the moment the regular’s face changes. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone look so angry.

“All right, that’s enough.”

A hand reaches out to grab Janson’s shoulder, jerking him back.

“Excuse me,” Janson says. “I have business with this young man. Unhand me.”

“Get out,” the regular says. “I’m not saying it twice.”

Janson lets go of Thomas’s hand to face the other man. Thomas gingerly places the card back down on the counter and draws his hand back to his chest, rubbing it self-consciously.

“And who are you?”

“The guy who’s about to flatten your fucking nose if you don’t scram right now.”

Despite the fact that Thomas has been admiring those muscles for weeks now, he had never really registered how  _ big _ the guy is. He dwarfs Janson, drawing his shoulders back and leaning into Janson’s space. He looks like he could take Janson with both hands behind his back.

“This doesn’t involve you,” Janson hisses.

“Too bad. I’m involving myself.”

“Thomas, do you know this man?” Janson asks.

Thomas is silent, unsure of what to say. He recognizes the guy, sure, but he still doesn’t know his name.

“So you’re just a stranger butting in where he doesn’t belong,” Janson surmises. “Or, perhaps, you’re invested? Interested in my Thomas, here?”

“I’m not yours, Janson,” Thomas says, surprised at how angry he sounds. “I never was.”

“Don’t be silly, Thomas,” Janson scoffs. “Without me, you don’t even know who you are.”

That might have worked on Thomas when he was younger. Back when he was naive and even stupider than he is now. Back when Janson first got his claws in him. But not anymore. Now it just makes him feel ashamed for his past self.

“Oh yeah? Well, I know who  _ you _ are,” the regular growls. “You’re gonna be ‘Sorry’ once I’m done with you.”

What is it with this guy and the stupid name jokes?

Janson laughs. “I’d like to see you try.”

The guy doesn’t even hesitate. He bodily lifts Janson by his jacket and heads towards the door, kicking it open. Janson looks panicked, struggling against the grip on his collar, feet swimming in the air.

It would be funny if Thomas had any energy left to feel humor.

Teresa comes out from the back. “What’s going on?”

The regular plops Janson down on the sidewalk, where he stumbles and lands on his ass. After a long moment of glaring at each other, Janson scrambles up and leaves.

Thank fuck.

The regular comes back in with a huff, straightening his coat.

“What a douche,” he says.

Thomas purses his lips and goes to make his order.

“Lucky I was around, right?” he continues.

Teresa looks nervously between Thomas and the door.

Thomas finishes the drink in record time. He holds the cup out over the counter, not bothering to ask for a name or to write some stupid comeback on it this time.

“Does that happen a lot?” the guy asks, disgust clearly coloring his tone. He accepts the drink and meets Thomas’s eyes. What he sees there seems to take him back.

Thomas is exhausted. He is  _ done. _ He’s tired of being jerked around by customers who don’t understand that he’s _ obligated _ to treat them nicely, whether or not he likes them or finds them attractive.

“You know you harass me all the time too, right?” he says.

Teresa’s head whips over, her eyes wide.

The guy looks shocked. He blinks a few times, then twists his face into a shaky smile. “Yeah, but you like it when I do it, right?”

Thomas silently turns around and begins wiping down the counters.

“...You like it when I do it. Right?” the guy repeats.

Teresa quickly opens the till and counts out his change.

“Thank you for your patronage,” she parrots, handing him the coins.

The guy accepts it, then holds the money to his chest, reluctant to go. But with no way to deny his clear dismissal, he leaves. The doorbell jingles behind him, and once he’s gone, Thomas slumps against the counter in relief.

“Thomas, are you okay?” Teresa asks, once he’s gone.

Thomas drops down onto the ground, leaning back against the cabinets.

“No,” he says. “I’m tired of these stupid men.”

Teresa gingerly lowers herself to the ground next to him. “I can imagine.”

Thomas is silent for a moment, before he voices his decision. “I think I’m going to have to turn in my two-week notice. Tonight.”

Teresa stares at him in surprise, and then understanding fills her eyes. “Okay.”

There’s no way Janson will give up now that he knows where Thomas works. It had taken Thomas ages to get away the first time. He isn’t going to risk it.

The only thing Thomas can do is quit and find a new job. It’s a coward’s way out, but he doesn’t think he can deal with something like what just occurred happening again. Even if he gets a picture of Janson to Alby so that servers know to turn him away if he starts sniffing around, that only works within the jurisdiction of the shop.

Thomas sighs. He’d liked it here. He liked his coworkers, and it was great being able to work alongside his best friend. But all good things come to an end, he supposes.

“C’mon,” Teresa says, standing up and offering him a hand. “Your two weeks aren’t up, yet. Until then, we’ll have to just weather this together.”

Thomas gives her a small smile, and accepts her hand.

* * *

The regular doesn’t come back.

Thomas is...reluctantly relieved. But he does feel kind of guilty for being so harsh. He kind of misses the tips, but he did fine without them before, and he’ll be fine without them now.

The guy’s face is still pasted onto the backs of his eyelids every time he closes his eyes to sleep, but that’s neither here nor there. Thomas has met plenty of attractive guys before. Why would this guy be different? Given some time, he’ll forget about it. It’ll all fade, and life will go back to normal.

Nevermind that he can still hear the guy’s voice echoing in his head.

_ “I missed seeing you first thing in the morning.” _

_ “You have a way of brightening my day.” _

Thomas is stupid, and he knows it. He shouldn’t read too much into it—it was just regular flirting with the cute barista. He isn’t special.

He thinks about the rage on the customer’s face when he stepped up to confront Janson.

So what? That doesn’t mean he cares. It just means he’s a hypocrite.

_ That’s all it is, Thomas, _ he tells himself.  _ Now stop it. _

* * *

The two weeks are almost over. Aris cashes in on that favor Thomas owes, so Thomas is covering a later shift than usual. It’s raining outside, a light drizzle that eventually turns into something heavier. It’s cozy inside the shop, a few people hiding out inside where it’s warm, laptops out and steaming cups next to them. The streetlights outside are amplified by the water. The world glistens.

He really will miss this place.

Thomas spots the figure across the street and sees the moment they make a decision to come inside, jogging across the road to arrive at their doorstep with a merry tinkle of the doorbell.

_ Maybe a hot cocoa, _ Thomas thinks.  _ On the house. _

Because he’s feeling nostalgic, and it’s cold outside, and they’re soaked.

Then they look up, shaking the water from their wet, black hair.

Thomas locks eyes with him, just as surprised to see the man that had stepped in between him and Janson as he is to see Thomas, it appears.

The man looks towards the door and back at the counter, debating his choices.

Thomas is in an uncharacteristically giving mood, so he makes the decision for him.

“What can I do for you, sir?” he asks.

The guy stares at him, mouth hanging slightly open in disbelief.

Thomas finds that he likes him that way. Surprised, caught off guard. It’s a good look for him.

The man hesitates as he edges his way inside. Finally, he sighs and comes up to the counter.

“...Hi,” he says, scratching his neck awkwardly.

“Hi,” Thomas says.

It’s weirdly comforting to see his face. With his hair messy and wet and his clothes dripping on the floor, he looks...different. Less put together. Less in-your-face-sexy-male-underwear-model.

Still hot, though.

“Café au lait?” Thomas asks. Then he glances at the clock. It’s later in the day. Perhaps caffeine isn’t what’s needed. “Or maybe something else?”

“Um... Whatever you suggest, I guess. I’m sure it’ll be good, no matter what it is.”

Thomas raises an eyebrow. The other quickly backtracks.

“I mean! Because you’re a good barista. And uh, you’re good at your job. Which I respect. Immensely.”

Thomas’s eyebrows go even higher, if possible. He glances at the ground. “You’re dripping all over the floor,” he observes.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t thinking... I can help clean it up? Or would you get in trouble for that? I don’t want you to get in trouble. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give you more work to do... Is it a health hazard? Wet floors? Should I go? I can go. Sorry. I’ll go.”

He looks so miserable that Thomas decides to take pity on him.

“How about hot cocoa?” he asks.

“I—uh,” the guy looks between the menu, Thomas’s face, and the floor. “Sure? I’m...I’m still dripping all over the floor,” he says, looking lost.

Thomas leans around him to look at the rest of the shop. Pretty quiet, and with the weather they shouldn’t be getting too many extra customers.

“Come on,” he says, and holds the mini-door at the bottom of the counter open for the other to step inside.

The guy looks behind him, as though expecting there to be someone else Thomas was addressing.

“Well? What are you waiting for? We have towels in the back.”

“Oh! Oh. You don’t—it’s fine. Not necessary at all. Wouldn’t want to impose. Because that would be rude. And I, uh. Don’t want to be rude.”

Thomas sighs and rolls his eyes. “Just get in here already. Unless you want to give me more of a mess to mop up later?”

The other moves so quickly that Thomas jerks back.

“Sorry!” the man squeaks, voice uncharacteristically high-pitched.

“Stop saying sorry.”

Thomas leads the way to the back, grabbing a couple towels along the way. The other man peels off some of his outer layers, wringing it dry over the sink.

Thomas crosses his arms and leans against the wall, tilting his head to get a better look. The other notices him looking, and quickly glances away. A little while ago, he probably would’ve smirked and asked Thomas if he liked what he saw. But now?

Now he’s nervous.

And that, Thomas can work with.

The man runs a towel through his hair, messing it up further. When he sees the way it sticks up in the mirror, he makes a face. Thomas can’t help but laugh a little, quietly. The man looks up at the sound, staring at Thomas with a barely-concealed expression of awe on his face.

“What?” Thomas asks.

“Nothing.”

“Right. Nothing except staring. Again,” Thomas teases.

The man looks sheepish. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to. You... have a nice smile.”

“It’s fine. I was joking. And I told you to stop saying sorry.”

The man opens his mouth to apologize again, realizes what he was about to do, and snaps his mouth closed.

“But I—”

“I didn’t—”

They both start and stop speaking at the same time. Thomas gestures for the other to go first.

The man clears his throat. “But I really am sorry. About how I treated you. It was out of line. And you’re a saint for putting up with me for so long. So I’m sorry. I think I just thought...”

Thomas waits for him to finish the sentence. When it becomes apparent he won’t, Thomas finishes it for him. “You just thought you were hot shit.”

The guy winces. “Yeah, guess so.”

Thomas heaves a sigh. “It was annoying,” he admits. “But I didn’t get the chance to thank you for what you did, the other day. So, thank you. And I guess, you’re forgiven. To be honest... if I minded  _ that _ much, I would’ve stopped you earlier. Though your tips definitely helped with that, too.”

The guy groans and pinches his nose. “Yeah, because bribery is so much better.”

Thomas smiles. “I appreciate the apology, though. Really. You done here?”

The guy looks at his pile of wet clothing, grimaces, but nods. “Not much else to be done. But at least I won’t be dripping anymore.”

“Yeah, I can’t be away from the front for too long. You’re welcome to stay in the shop, though. Still want that hot cocoa?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

Together, they make their way back to the front of the shop. They take their customary places on each side of the counter, and for a second, they just stand there and look at each other.

“So... one hot cocoa?”

“Yeah.”

Thomas rattles out the total, he pays, Thomas gives him the change.

“For here? You can take a seat, I’ll bring it to you.”

“Actually... I’d like it to-go.”

Thomas gives him a look. “You can stay. It’s fine, really. It’s still pouring out. And you didn’t bring your car.”

...Yeah, he’d noticed. He would have recognized the car, otherwise.

“Oh. Yeah. I was planning to. Stay, that is. I just... um.”

Thomas gives him a quizzical look.

“...Minho. My name. It’s Minho. So you can...write that down, this time. On the cup.”

Ah. When customers take their drinks for here, they use ceramic cups and collect them to wash later. Only the paper to-go cups have names written on them, since the order is called out to be picked up from the counter.

“All right, Minho. I’ll get your hot cocoa in a to-go cup. You can find a seat, if you’d like. Since you’re planning on staying.”

Minho nods, scratches his neck again, and goes to do just that.

When Thomas is done with the drink, he picks up the sharpie and considers the cup in his hand.

_ Fuck it, _ he thinks. He scribbles on it, ending with a flourish.

He brings the cup over to where Minho is sitting.

“Hot cocoa for Minho,” he says.

Minho gives him a small smile and takes the cup from him, then freezes.

Scrawled in Thomas’s handwriting on the side of the cup is a list of digits. Thomas’s number.

Minho looks back up at Thomas in disbelief. Thomas gives him a small grin.

“I won’t be sticking around here much longer. Got a new job,” he says. “A tea café. It would be... nice, to see a familiar face, now and then.”

A slow smile spreads across Minho’s face. “And a good tipper is always welcome.”

Thomas laughs. “Always. See you around, Minho.”

He turns and walks back to the counter. He’s pretty sure Minho checks out his ass.

That’s inappropriate, of course. But Thomas can let it slide.

Just this once.

**Author's Note:**

> janson just never got his credit card back, ig. lol  
> i have tmr fic requests open on my [tumblr](https://manako-no-yami.tumblr.com/post/639180305112203264/hey-yall-im-currently-taking-tmr-fic-requests-for)!


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